


After.

by wolf_shadoe



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer (TV)
Genre: F/M, Heavy Angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-07
Updated: 2019-04-07
Packaged: 2020-01-06 01:14:27
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,636
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18377933
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wolf_shadoe/pseuds/wolf_shadoe
Summary: Pain, man, it's all pain. Canon compliant, post-The Gift.





	After.

 

 

 

They brought her to him. Afterwards. To the cold dead place for cold dead things. 

He didn't know, at first. They took her away, see - watcher picked her up and everyone left. He thought they'd all gone back to Revello. And that wasn't really her anymore, anyway. So he'd lain there in the dust, and everything got a bit foggy with it. Waited to wake up from the nightmare. Wondered why the pain in his leg and chest felt so real. 

Until he started thinking - Dawn’s gone with them. Was supposed to be looking out for her, wasn't he? Bit bloody late, of course. But maybe this was another one of those dream invasion thingies, and Buffy'd be dishing out one hell of a punch to the noggin if he'd gone and let Dawn wander off with Dreadlock-Girl on the loose. So he'd crawled his way off to the sewers, and somehow on the way to Revello he’d found himself here. And here she was. Lying on the stone sarcophagus upstairs in his crypt.

And the watcher. Vigil-ing. 

So he asked the watching-man. 

“Where's the bit? Slayer’ll be right mad when she finds out I've let her wander off.”

And Giles whispered, “No she won't. She's…” 

And he didn't know how Giles was gonna try and finish that statement, so he smacked him one before he could try - a swift jab to the mouth that sent them both to the ground with hands to their heads. 

Giles recovered first, getting to his haunches slowly and pulling a filthy handkerchief from his pocket. He dabbed at his split lip with it, then felt out the cut with his finger. He looked over at Spike, half curled on his side on the floor, then he took off his glasses, wiped them carefully with the dirty handkerchief, and put them back on. When he spoke his voice came out craggy with static. “Dawn's at home. Willow’s given her something to help her sleep. Show me your leg.”

So Spike rolled onto his back and stretched it out, feeling the bones grating and shifting with an odd sense of distance. 

Better down here. Can't see…. 

Can, though. Can't drag his eyes from a lock of golden hair that trails off the side of her sleeping-spot, or from the outline of her fingers on one edge. He watches that lock of hair as the watcher sets his leg, and when Giles stands up again the little ribbon of gold moves ever so slightly at the tip, like the twitching of a sleeping cat's tail. And it must have been her twitching in her sleep, and he should stand up now to see for himself. Ask her what the hell she's thinking by inviting herself in for a nap. But maybe it's better to stay down here, and picture it instead. Anticipation and all. Make it all the sweeter when he does. 

“Spike?” Giles asked, and it didn't sound like the first time. He nodded vaguely in response. “Can you… watch her? I should go and check on the others. Make... arrangements.”

That’s right. He's Watcher-Junior in this little dream sequence. Must be time for the old boy to retire. “Yessir,” he said, and sat up to look him in the eye and salute, all proper and respectful-like. 

Didn’t let his eyes move as Watcher-Senior hemmed and hawed and finally turned and hurried out. Didn't let his eyes move from the closed door behind him either. But most of all, didn't let himself listen to the silence after he'd gone.

 

Not too warm in here, really. Night-cold and cemetery-cold and buried-things-cold, all held in by cold stone walls. 

Can't be too comfortable for her, either; Slayer likes her creature comforts, she does. Has one of those fancy extra-layer things on her mattress at home to make it softer, like she's the bleeding princess with the legume objection. Even though he's caught her napping on gravestones happy-as-you-please during slow nights on patrol.

Might lessen the impact on his nose later though if he makes a peace offering ahead of time.

So he turned his eyes from the door to consider the hole leading down to the lower level, then climbed carefully to his unbandaged leg and tested the other for weight-bearing-ness. Watcher-Senior had done a good job with it, splinted his shattered shinbone straight and secure with what looked like a couple of stakes and most of a roll of duct tape; if he's careful he should be able to walk on it without adding to the damage. 

So he climbed down to the lower level and studied the options. Satin sheets on his bed, deep blood-scarlet. Doesn't really fancy the stereotype himself, but Harmony would have  _ hated _ them, and that’d been the point that day, hadn't it? But, aesthetics aside, they wouldn't rate much on Buffy’s warm-and-comfort scale on top of stone. 

Bottom drawer of the tallboy he found the quilt at last, patchworked pink and colourful, soft and puffy.  _ Much  _ more her thing. As it should be - he'd bought (nicked) this one just for her. Or, ok, for the bot-her anyway, but same diff when it comes to bedding taste.

His blood-smeared fingers gave him pause when he went to lift out the blanket, so he shrugged off his coat with its layers of dust and blood and--  salt , and dropped it to the floor. Next the shirt, wiping his hands with it as best he could, but the damn things were shaking too much - must be the blood loss from his leg, his head, something, tired maybe - so he gave it up and pulled on a clean shirt before he set the quilt over his shoulders and retraced his steps to the ladder.

Maybe she's left while he stuffed around down there. He'd have heard the door slam though; no way she'd just tiptoe out again. ‘Less she was embarrassed, and thought to sneak off before he caught her. Likelihood of that gave him the push to climb back up, and  _ Christ  _ has he had enough of ladders for one day. Week. Unlife. 

But she's still there. 

And he'd gone and looked to see whether she was or not, and then he couldn't look away. 

There was the hint of a smile on her lips, something softer than he'd seen her wearing in far too long. She'd had it so rough lately with all that Glory business. Over now though, hellbitch vanquished at last. No wonder Buffy was all tuckered out, poor thing. 

Unbidden, his traitorous feet had carried him closer, until he could almost have touched her if he reached out. He fingered the quilt on his shoulder, reconsidering whether it would be worth the risk of waking her by adding it when she looked so contented already. 

Maybe the stone is warmer than it looks. Maybe the dream makes it so. 

But surely she'd prefer a blanket anyway. 

So he'd unfolded the quilt and tiptoed closer. Held his breath both for surreptitiousness, and because breathing had been hurting like a bitch all day - must have broken at least a few ribs in that fall - and seemed to have suddenly got much worse. 

One delicate little hand caught his attention, and he paused to study it. Her fingers were nestled together gently, looking deceptively docile without the tension they’d held whenever she'd been awake with him this close. The skin over her knuckles looked soft and smooth, nothing to show for all those love taps to his nose, or from whaling on Glory earlier. He imagined kissing the back of her hand, testing the softness with his lips, but leaned away instead. Scared.

He spread the blanket over her carefully, without touching, covering her to her shoulders. Then tiptoed backwards to sit on the ledge of wall near her head, and watch.

 

Just before sunset Giles returned, alone again. He must have showered, put on clean clothes; yet somehow he looked shabbier for it, the hollows of his eyes deeper and the sag of his posture more noticeable in contrast to the crisp attire. He stepped in quietly with his head bowed, closing the door behind him. 

At Buffy’s side he stopped and gazed at her face for a long moment before raising his eyes to Spike. “I'm going to take her now,” he murmured.

There was some sort of plea in the watcher's tone, but Spike couldn't tell if the words were a challenge, or riddle, or simply a fact. So, “ _ Shh _ ,” he whispered, “ _ don’t wake her up _ .”

Giles’ brows drew together and he looked like maybe he was going to speak, then with a small nod he pursed his lips and reached for her.

“Wait--” Spike gasped quietly, and stumbled to his feet. 

Giles paused, arms out, and his frown deepened. 

Ignoring the man, Spike moved to her head, then leaned in until his lips hovered over the skin of her cheek. Closing his eyes, he breathed in slow and deep, the summer-days and strawberry-shampoo scent of her rolling across his tongue and burning as it filled his aching chest. 

Then he stood up slowly, and kept his eyes steady on the stone slab as Giles lifted his slayer and carried her from the crypt.

He left the door open behind him, arms full, and Spike looked up as he crossed the grass and disappeared from view. A minute later the sound of the car’s engine starting travelled back to him, then faded into the distance as he drove away.

 

In the sky above the sun that had risen as she flew slipped down behind the horizon, leaving the world hushed and dark. 

He exhaled slowly, cold dead breath laced with sunshine and strawberries, and in that moment it became real, and his knees hit the floor.

 

 

 


End file.
